


Impression, Sunrise

by gwen (gwennoble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennoble/pseuds/gwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac Lahey is a guide at an art gallery, and Stiles Stilinski couldn't care less... until he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Ask Me

“But Moooooom, art is boring!”  
  
Across the room from the girl and her mother, Stiles couldn’t agree more. The canvas in front of him is a perfect example; it’s blank. No paint, no pictures, just emptiness. He leans forwards, as close as he can get without touching it, peers suspiciously at some artist’s attempt to express futility in a lonely world, or the absence of love, or a polar bear in a snowstorm.

“Have you guys seen this one? A total joke,” Stiles gestures towards the so-called “art”, but Scott and Allison aren’t even there. Stiles spots them in a corner of the room, admiring anything but the artwork. That is, they're making out. Gross.  

Stiles, sick of third wheeling for the love birds, saunters off through the gallery to find better things to look at than his best friend with his tongue down his girlfriend’s throat. He wanders through rooms with sculptures, carvings, and photographs, until he enters the building’s final exhibit. The wall is covered in paintings, not unlike any of the other walls in the gallery, but at least the room is near empty, save for a couple of tourists and a gallery employee, who, from what Stiles can hear, is talking their ears off about brushstroke techniques in the 19th century.

Stiles steps up to the painting to his right, and though it’s a different style of painting, he knows that much about art, it’s just as ugly, if not uglier, than the other art on display. It’s a painting of boats in a harbour, the horizon stripes of blue and orange, with a brightly coloured sun reflecting off the water below. The artist, whoever they may be, doesn’t seem to have cared much about precision. The paint mixes colours in some places, and is so thick in others that it looks like a sad attempt at 3D. Stiles wonders how this guy even got his art taken seriously.

“ _Impression, Soleil Levant_ ,” the voice comes from behind Stiles, “It’s, uh, one of Monet’s best pieces, if you ask me.”

Stiles whirls around, surprised, to come face to face with the employee he spotted as he entered the room. He’s tall, a good few inches taller than Stiles, blonde, and he looks down at Stiles with soft blue eyes.

“What?” He mumbles. _Great going, Stilinski._

“The painting,” Tall Boy repeats, “It’s was made by Claude Monet in 1872, in France. It’s one of my favourite of his pieces.”

“Is it bad that I don’t really get it?” Stiles chuckles, turning back towards the painting, “I mean, it’s not even _good_!”

“It’s actually quite impressive,” Tall Boy says, getting defensive now, “This was the painting that gave name to the impressionist movement, and really solidified Monet’s position as a leading artist in history.”

“Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” Stiles puts his hands up, as if to surrender, “I’m only here because my friend made me, and I’m not really interested in a lecture from…” he peers at the name tag on Tall Boy’s chest, “Hello My Name Is Isaac.”

Stiles can feel Isaac getting ready for a rebuttal, but their argument is cut short by Scott’s voice ringing out from the entrance to the exhibit, “Stiles! We’re going to go grab some lunch, you coming?”

Though Stiles can think of almost nothing worse than sitting through yet another dinner with the lovebirds, watching Scott feed Allison from his plate and Allison wipe Scott’s mouth with a napkin, he’s relieved to get away from Isaac.

“Sorry, Isaac, that’s my cue!” With a trademark smirk and a mock salute, Stiles leaves Isaac glaring in front of _Impression, Soleil Levant_ , whatever that means.


	2. Lilypads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Subway heals your heart, your soul, and your stomach

If there’s one thing Isaac truly considers a comfort food, it would be Subway. While all of his gallery coworkers are pretentious assholes, he doesn’t mind admitting that a good fast food sandwich is all it takes to make him happy. That’s why he’s sitting in his corner of the restaurant on his lunch break, munching happily on a footlong BLT with mayo.

The pretentious asshole coworkers are probably the only thing Isaac hates about the art gallery. He’s never been good at socializing, has always had a certain shyness, but he thought that knowing people who had the same interest in the art world would help him make some friends. It didn’t take him long to realize that the other guides at the gallery were either there to have good credentials, good salaries, or both.

Not that Isaac thinks those pursuits aren’t valid; hell, he’s in it for those things just as much as any guy. He just wishes he has someone to talk with about art. Having a special interest sucks when the only people who will listen are tourists, and your interesting facts have been condensed to a script by your manager, who has gotten sick of complaints about your half hour rants.

Isaac takes a sip of his Sprite and checks his phone. He’s got another twenty minutes or so before he has to head back to the gallery. A bunch of high school students flood into the restaurant, and Isaac is glad that he gets off work with enough time to beat these kids to a table, because they take them all up within minutes.

He’s five minutes into a round of 2048 when someone beside him clears their throat. He looks up.

"Hey, can I- Oh fuck.”

It’s that obnoxious guy from last week who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a Van Gogh and a Picasso if there was a gun to his head. And he’s standing next to Isaac’s table, face flooding with embarrassment.

When Isaac raises his eyebrows in surprise, the guy manages, “I, um, was going to ask if I can sit here, since there are no other tables. I didn’t actually recognize you until you looked up. But I don’t have to if, you know, I’m not artsy enough for you, or whatever.”

Had Isaac really sounded that haughty? He remembers getting a little defensive, sure, but this guy had definitely been pushing Isaac’s buttons. Regardless, he pulls his tray closer towards him and gestures for the boy to take the seat across from him.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” Isaac asks once the guy has started unwrapping his sub, “I didn’t mean to be a jerk.”

“Oh, you were the king of jerks,” the shorter boy has already taken a huge chunk out of his sandwich, and lettuce falls out of his mouth as he speaks, “Like, if I were to name the top ten jerks of all history, you’d be right up there. Number one, my best friend’s dad, then this guy named Derek, then you.”

Isaac’s about to argue against that, but he continues, “I’d probably be right after you at number four though. _Stiles Stilinski, Almost As Much Of A Jerk_. Almost. I mean, what kind of guy flips out over some painting?”

“It’s not just a painting, though,” Isaac feels like they should be fighting, but this Stiles guy is talking to Isaac like it’s friendly banter, “Monet was a really cool guy, if you learn a little bit about him.”

Stiles steals a piece of bacon from Isaac’s tray where it had fallen, and nibbles on it, “I’m gonna regret this,” he says, pointing the bacon towards Isaac, “but please, educate me on this Monet guy.”

Tentatively at first, and then with enthusiasm, Isaac does what he’s always tempted to do; he tells Stiles literally everything he’s ever learned about 19th century Impressionism.

Sure, it’s a niche interest, and Isaac’s asked himself many times why on earth a 20 year old high school dropout would care about some old dudes in France painting lily pads. As a kid, Isaac just thought that everyone had something they loved to talk about above all else, just because. He had art, his brother had military tactics, and that was the way things were. But once he hit high school, Isaac realized that most people had some hobbies, liked some things, but nobody had intense interests like he did. His therapist called it autism, which accounted for a lot of Isaac's differences, and his mom called it being special. 

He doesn’t tell Stiles this, doesn’t tell him that this is the first time since Caleb died that anybody’s listened to Isaac. What he does tell Stiles is that Monet hated the mainstream art of the 19th century, that all he wanted was to paint nature, and that Isaac has always hoped to visit Monet’s home museum in Giverny, where the lily pads he painted so many times are still kept today.

When Isaac can’t think of anything else to say, he glances at Stiles’ face to make sure he’s still awake, and is pleased to find his eyes still open.

“That was, to say the least, pretty cool,” Stiles smiles, the first non-sarcastic one Isaac has seen him wear, and takes the final bite of Isaac’s sub, which he must have stolen while Isaac was talking, “I guess I can see why you like that Claude guy so much. He was, like, the first hipster in history. Gotta give him props for that.”

“I guess you can put it that way,” Isaac chuckles, "I just wanted to apologize again for yesterday. I'm, I have autism, it's hard for me to talk to people. I guess I thought you were angrier at me than you actually were." He tucks a stray curl behind his ear, checks his phone, “Oh, shit, I was supposed to be back at work ten minutes ago.”

“You’ve gotta go mess with some more uncultured dudes,” Stiles asks, “Or am I just special?”

“You’re just special,” Isaac smiles timidly as he stands up and grabs his tray, “I’ve never met someone with as little knowledge of art history as you. _Very_ special.”

“Oh, you shut it,” Stiles follows him to the garbage and dumps his tray, “The gallery’s en route to my university, can I walk you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Isaac tries to sound nonchalant, tries to use the same unruffled tone of voice Stiles does, but it comes out squeaky and excited. He coughs, “that sounds, um, cool.”

Stiles walks him back to work, their shoulders brushing occasionally. They're just outside the gallery when Stiles says, "About the autism, it's no biggie. I'll try to let you know when I'm  _actually_ mad. Not that I am often. It's usually sarcasm."

Isaac nods, smiles, and when they exchange cell numbers, he wonders if having a friend always feels this amazing.

 


	3. Casa Stilinski-McCall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Equipped with the authors minimal Xbox knowledge, the duo set out to chillax and blush at eachother

**6:30 pm:** hey art nerd, its stilinski.

 **6:37 pm:** hi! how are you?

 **6:38 pm:** gud, playing skyrim. fckin villagers keep trying to kill me 4 stealing their shit. u?

 **6:40 pm:** just reading an article. what’s skyrim?

 **6:43 pm:** SRSLY?!?!! its only the best video game in the known universe! u gotta come play sometime i s2g. watcha readin?

 **6:49 pm:** you would laugh at me if I told you!

 **6:58 pm:** no i swear i wont… unless its old lady erotica

 **7:04 pm:** it may or may not be an article examining which colours monet used the most.

 **7:10 pm:** hahahahahahhahahaha omg u nerd

Stiles tosses his phone beside him on the couch, and continues raiding houses, though he glances back at his cell every two minutes to see if Isaac has replied. Not that it’s a big deal or anything. Scott has just been really busy with Allison lately, and Stiles forgot what it was like to have a friend whose time wasn’t divided between smooching and even more smooching.

Even though Stiles mocks Isaac’s obsession, he’s willing to admit that he’s a little jealous, too. Stiles is hyperactive, always bouncing from one idea to another. He doesn’t think he’d be able to hold down one serious interest for more than an hour without exploding. He knows about every type of snake venom out there, has memorized the first thousand digits of pi, and can name any ancient greek deity and their domains. He knows all this and more, but has no special something, nothing he truly cares about. Which sucks balls.

It’s probably why he’s only half as disgusted as he lets Scott think whenever he sees the guy with Allison. Scott’s the kind of dude to get attached to a lady the second they start going out, who lavishes her with attention and presents and the aforementioned smooches. Though it is pretty grody to see his best friend engaging in lots of lip on lip action with his girl, it’s also kinda like what Isaac has with art. _Not_ lip on lip action with art, but passion. You gotta hand it to passionate people; they sure do love stuff.

His emotional crisis is interrupted with the _ding-ding_ of his phone.

 **7:20 pm:** are you getting subway tomorrow? you should show me how skyrim works afterwards.

 **7:20 pm:** sure!!!!!!

He hits send, is already regretting the five-too-many exclamation points, not to mention the fact that he replied to a text less than twenty seconds after it was sent. Doesn’t matter, he assures himself, he’s hyperactive enough that Isaac probably won’t bat an eyelash at the overzealous texting. He hopes.

 

 

“Tell me again how this controller works?”

Isaac and Stiles are on the couch in Stiles’ apartment, which is less apartment and more glorified closet. The kitchen, a sink and counter and fridge, opens up into a living room that barely makes room for a couch and TV. The Xbox is certainly pushing it. The living room branches out on one side, where a bathroom and two bedrooms are crammed.

“It’s gonna make your jaw drop, I swear,” Stiles had told Isaac as they finished their footlongs, this time with Isaac avoiding Stiles’ swipes at his sandwich, “Imagine a mansion, then another mansion, and they had a baby mansion, and then morphed together into a triple mansion. That’s Casa Stilinski-McCall.” Stiles does jazz hands, and Isaac giggles with a mouth full of bacon.

Even though it wasn’t quite what Isaac was led to believe, Casa Stilinski-McCall is still much more impressive than Sala Lahey, which, as the spanish title truly describes, really is just a room. Isaac rents a bedroom out of an apartment from a girl his age named Erica, who he rarely sees because she disappears around dinner time and isn’t back from partying until Isaac has already left for work in the morning. Because she’s hardly there, Isaac is allowed to make his own meals in peace, and obviously he’s allowed to use the bathroom, but the only part of the house that truly feels like his own is his sad excuse for a bedroom.

Isaac fiddles with the Xbox controller in his hands as Stiles tries desperately to make him memorize the different functions of each button. After going over each one at least a handful of times, Stiles gives up and sinks into the couch with a huff.

“I don’t know, man, you figure it out on your own. Twiddle the joysticks and punch the buttons until you’re moving.”

Stiles and Isaac are obviously different video game players; Isaac takes a good forty minutes customizing how his character looks, creating the most handsome, most blondest Dark Elf the game has ever seen. Throughout the entire process, Stiles mutters from beside Isaac to “just get on with it!”

Once the game starts, Isaac regrets ever leaving the Start screen. There’s a dragon, and execution, and lots of people trying to kill him. The loud noises of swords clashing together makes him want to cover his ears, and sometimes he does, until Stiles notices and turns down the volume.

Even though Isaac forces Stiles to play the scary parts for him, he enjoys the game. For the most part, he likes having Stiles there with him, coaching him through the plot and spewing facts at him about the game’s development. Isaac couldn’t be happier that Stiles, stubborn and energetic, wants to be near him, the tall and gawky social recluse who didn’t even know how to use an Xbox controller until half an hour ago.

Sure, their fingers may brush against one another as they fight over the controller, and maybe their eyes meet a few times more than usual, but the blush that spreads through Isaac’s cheeks as he glances quickly away is definitely a blush of embarrassment. He’s never had a friend before! It’s bound to make him nervous. The pounding chest and twisting stomach have nothing to do with Stiles’ full lips, which are _totally_ kissable. They are also not related in the slightest to the moles that spread like constellations across the shorter boy’s skin, that Isaac wants to trace with his fingers over and over again.

 _Okay, it might be a crush. Only a little one. Tiny, really,_ Isaac thinks to himself, watching Stiles trek over a steep mountain that Isaac kept falling down. His tongue is poking out of his mouth, his thumbs tense over the buttons, and Isaac doesn’t know how long he can keep convincing himself that it’s only a little crush.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos are welcomed! I'd love to know what everyone thinks of the story so far <3


	4. Homoerotic Subtext Pending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like popcorn, a movie, and blossoming romance to brighten your day, eh?

“SURPRISE!”

Isaac lets out a yell in front of Stiles, who has to cover his mouth in order to stop from laughing too hard. Sure, screaming is probably banned in an art gallery, but it was so worth it to see the furious look on Isaac’s face as he turns to face Stiles, cheeks red and eyes glaring.

“What the fuck?” The taller boy hisses, shoving Stiles, “You almost made me pass out there!”

“Now _that_ would be hilarious!” The other gallery patrons are looking disdainfully at the pair of them, and they can go suck it in Stiles’ opinion. Pranks are an art and Stiles is pretty sure this is an art gallery, so he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t be allowed to pull them.

“What are you doing here, anyways?” Isaac leans against a nearby pillar, catches his breath, seems a lot more scared than he’s telling Stiles, “I mean, this isn’t necessarily your favourite place to be.”  
“I thought I’d come visit you!” Stiles exclaims, “I don’t have any classes today, so I thought, Stiles, today you do charity work. You’ve gotta brighten the day of the first boring loser you come across. And here I am!”

Stiles holds true to his promise, and hangs around the gallery for Isaac’s entire shift. When Isaac is answering another patron’s questions, Stiles jumps in with made up facts about “Van Gogh’s extra toe” or “Jackson Pollock’s addiction to eating paper”. He sees how close to touching a canvas he can get before the security guard tells him to quit it, then runs off and does it again in another room. Whenever the supervisor passes by the entrance to the exhibit, Stiles stops whatever he’s doing and peers at the nearest painting as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. He’d love to get kicked out of this boring place, but the last thing he wants is Isaac getting booted out alongside him.

The shift stretches out for what feels like days, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief when it’s finally over, “I could not stand another five minutes in this hellhole! Let’s go pick up some pizza.”

“Um, alright,” Isaac agrees, though Stiles doesn’t give him much of a choice, already heading to his Jeep and knowing that Isaac will follow.

  
  


“This pizza is pretty good,” Isaac says through a mouthful of anchovies, green peppers, sausage, bacon, and any other pizza topping known to man. When Stiles had first ordered, Isaac was worried that anything other than his usual cheese-and-pepperoni would be too much to handle, would give him the meltdown he’s been avoiding whenever he hangs out with Stiles. He was relieved to find that most pizza toppings are drenched with enough grease and melted cheese to taste all that different. After he picks off the olives, he actually enjoys it.

Sure, Stiles knows that Isaac is autistic. He has handled Isaac’s infodumps, has been pretty good about keeping volume down (the yelling at the gallery was one of the only times it happened), and generally treats Isaac like any other person. But Isaac isn’t worried about the little things; he’s worried about breaking down because he touched the wrong texture, of going nonverbal in the middle of a conversation, of being just too tired to even hang out.

They’re starting up a movie, one that Isaac picked out from Stiles’ impressive stash. Stiles seems surprised when Isaac hands him _The Lego Movie_ , but doesn’t complain. They settle back onto the couch, watch the first five minutes until Stiles realizes that they haven’t made popcorn, and apparently popcorn is “a movie-watching life or death necessity”.

Stiles puts the bag of kernels in the microwave, and Isaac leans against the counter. Once the kernels start popping, the smell of butter floods the apartment.

“Mmm,” Stiles sniffs the air like a hound dog, “best part about popcorn is the smell. Even better is movie theater popcorn, but this stuff is almost as good.”

That makes Isaac chuckle, “My older brother always used to put cheese on his popcorn, and _that_ smells even better.”  
“You have a brother?” Stiles has an eyebrow raised, “I mean, sorry, you just never talk about your family. I assumed you didn’t like them.”

“No, yeah, had a brother. His name was Camden.”  
“Was? You mean he’s-”  
Stiles is cut off when the lovely smell of popping popcorn changes into charred kernels and smoke. “Shit!” he cries out, fanning at the air with one hand and pressing the microwave button to open the door with the other, “That is some burnt as fuck popcorn.”

Isaac, relieved that his probably tearful life story has been interrupted, helps Stiles to get out a bowl and put extra butter on the popcorn (which Isaac finds gross but Stiles insists on). Finally, burnt kernels crunching between their teeth, the boys settle down in front of the TV again.

  
  


Stiles has to admit that Isaac made a stellar movie choice. As a former Lego fanatic, Stiles loves the animation, inside jokes, and plot twist.

“So what does Emmet do now?” Stiles asks Isaac, gesturing towards the credits, “He knows who The Man Upstairs is, how can he live with himself knowing he’s just a Lego figurine?”

When nobody replies, Stiles turns to his right, to find Isaacs snoring, his head on the armrest of the couch, legs tucked up onto the seat. Stiles’ smile softens a little bit, and he almost reaches out to pet Isaac’s face like he’s a napping kitten. Almost.

  
  


Isaac wakes up the next morning to find a blanket thrown over his body and a pillow placed under his head. He hears a sizzle from behind him, and sits up, stretches, turns towards the noise. Stiles is at the stove, bacon and eggs cooking in the pan he watches.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!” He says, flipping the bacon with ease, “I was hoping the sweet smells of breakfast would wake you. Didn’t want to have to kiss you to break the curse, amirite?”

“I wish,” Isaac replies, “Nothing I’d like more than Stiles Stilinski’s morning breath in my face.”

Stiles gasps in mock amazement, “Isaac, your first sarcastic joke! I knew I’d rub off on you in due time. Extra bacon all around!”

Isaac yawns and takes his plate, is about to sit down when Scott, who Isaac had yet to meet, comes bounding through the door.

“Hey, Stiles! Hey… Isaac?” He turns towards Isaac, a grin spreading slowly across his face, “Was I interrupting something? Did you two have a _sleepover?_ ”

Isaac is frozen in embarrassment, but Stiles, forever calm, scoffs at Scott as he sits down at the kitchen table.

“No, Scott, we did not have a sleepover, in whatever perverted way you are referring to. Isaac just slept over!” He stops talking, starts again, “Okay, more clarification needed. Isaac fell asleep on the couch last night, so I let him stay. No homoerotic subtext happening here. For now, at least.”

Stiles winks at Isaac, shovels some scrambled eggs into his mouth, and leaves Isaac’s brain in overdrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments/kudos are greatly appreciated!


	5. Chocolate Peppermint Crunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys reach a bump in the road. Thanks, Scott.

Scott is lying on the couch, sniffles and the occasional sob filling the small apartment. The day that Stiles has been hoping to never see has finally come, and it sucks, a lot. Especially since Allison broke up with Scott a full week ago, and he’s still in the throes of misery.

From what Stiles was able to glean from Scott in between meltdowns, Allison decided that Scott was too _involved_. He was always asking how she was, making sure that she felt alright, being his normal sweet self. Stiles didn’t know that some girls wanted inattentive boyfriends, but if any girl is going to be so independent that a caring partner turns them off, it’d be Ally.

“Here you go, Scotty,” Stiles perches on the edge of the couch, hands Scott his third tub of ice cream, “They were out of Chocolate Peppermint Crunch, but I grabbed you some Cookie Dough instead.”

Scott looks up at Stiles with horror stricken eyes, “That was Allison’s favourite,” and the waterworks go off once again.

Stiles sighs, wanders away from Scott’s pathetic weeping, checks his phone for the first time since the morning before.

 **3:45 pm** : wanna go for lunch again tomorrow?

 **4:12 pm** : yes? no?

 **8:57 pm** : i guess not. talk to you soon

Stiles taps back a quick reply.

 **2:23 pm** : so sorry!!!!!! scotts gf broke up w him so he needs his bff rn

 **2:23 pm** : i promise ill make it up 2 u once hes done bein sad

“Stiles?” Scott whimpers from the couch, “Can we watch The Notebook again?”

“Sure, buddy.” Stiles puts down his phone and grabs the DVD from the table, “As long it’s the last time today.”

  


Isaac reads Stiles’ texts, but they don’t do much to lift his spirits. Stiles hasn’t spoken to him in almost a week, cares only about Scott. Yeah, sure, he gets the whole break up thing (not that he’s ever had one). He’s watched enough TV to picture what Scott must be acting like right now, and can definitely see why Stiles has to babysit him until it blows over.

That being said, Isaac thought _things_ were about to happen between him and Stiles. Beautiful, snuggly relationship things. After the comment Stiles had made over breakfast the week before, Isaac had spent hours analysing the wink, the grin, the promise of more to come.

What is really bothering him is that he can’t know for certain that Stiles actually wants to see him. He’s found the perfect excuse, and now he’s at home laughing about how needy Isaac is with Scott. Maybe Isaac was just being messed with, and Stiles thinks he’s freak, and Stiles was bored and needed a distraction and Isaac was the only person around.

Isaac has had to throw himself into his old life without Stiles. No more lunch dates or late nights playing video games. Isaac wakes up in the morning, goes to work, comes home, and goes to bed. Even Erica has noticed, and leaves Isaac notes to find telling him to _just cheer up!_ and that _i'm sure your boy will be back soon enough._

This is why, when Isaac’s phone finally rings, he’s not entirely happy to hear Stiles’ voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Heyyyy, buddy! Did you get my texts?”

“Uh, yeah, I did.”  
  
“We good? Oh shit, hold on. No, Scott, I am not on the phone with Allison. I am talking to Isaac. Yes, he thinks she’s a bitch too. Such a bitch. Horrible girl. Totally not one of my closest friends. I hate her. Isaac hates her too.”

“I hate who?”

“Scott’s girlfriend - shit, ex-girlfriend- Allison.”

“Oh… okay.”

“But, yeah, are we okay? I mean, I really have been wanting to see you. You can’t just start playing Skyrim and then stop, you’ll forget the plot! The plot is essential to your enjoyment of the game! Can I text you once Scott calms down? Should only be another day or so.”

Isaac sighs. He knows he’s probably overreacting, he knows that whatever he wants to say next will probably only make Stiles dislike him even more.

“Fine, Stiles. I know Scott is your best friend, and I’m just… I’m just a guy you hardly even know. Can you stop pretending like you want to hang out with me? Please?”

And, with the self-righteousness of every romantic film’s protagonist bubbling up inside of him, Isaac hangs up.

 

Stiles is left staring at his phone, silent in his hand. What the fuck? Isaac, the most timid boy in Beacon Hills, is suddenly cold as ice - and who said Stiles was pretending?

He’s missed the time he had with Isaac before the breakup of the century. For the first time since Lydia Martin in grade school, Stiles is starting to fall for someone. He knows it as sure as he knows that Scott will want to watch The Notebook at least two more times before the night is through. Isaac makes Stiles feel complete in a way that his friendship with Scott, no matter how amazing and relaxed it is, could. Isaac makes Stiles want to jump for joy, run in circles, pull a laugh from the taller boy’s mouth and then kiss that mouth until Isaac’s lips are puffy.

And sure, he wants to do other things too. Stiles sometimes has to push back the thoughts about Isaac that flood his active mind at the wrost moments. Study hall - what does Isaac look like without a shirt? Lecture - without pants? Cramming for an exam - is Isaac circumcised? He would really, _really_ like to know.

“Stiles?” Scott reaches out halfheartedly towards Stiles from the couch, “Noah and Allie are about to kiss for the first time and I need the tissue box.”

“Sure, Scotty, wipe up the tears,” Stiles resigns himself to watching over Scott for the night. He’ll deal with the Isaac dilemma in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! might post the next chapter tonight to catch up with my promise of daily updates. as always, i love a good comment/kudos! <333


	6. You Know Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a mystery! who is the subway bandit? why do the kids from that school all love the same fast food joint? why is isaac being such a mopey asshole?

“A what?”

“A romance ambush! Isaac will love it!”  
“Isn’t this the guy who almost had a meltdown when a video game was too loud?”  
“Sure, Scott, I’m the bad guy here. Dude just wants his crush slash friend back, tries to do something nice, all of a sudden he’s a villain. Fuck you.”  
“I mean, as long as we don’t sneak up behind him and pull a bag over his head… _Stiles_!”

“Okay, that may have been my plan. But now that you mention it, we’ll think of something different.”  
The boys are gathered around their kitchen table. Scott is still emotionally drained from the breakup, but can now go through at least half the day without bursting into tears. Stiles feels like he’s gone through a breakup too, hasn’t heard from Isaac in three more days, wishes he had said something reassuring before he’d been hung up on.

“Okay, here’s the new plan,” Stiles points to the map laid out in front of him, “This is the art gallery. This is the Subway where Isaac takes his lunch. And _that_ ,” Stiles points dramatically to the chess piece he has used to mark the spot on the map, “is when I strike!”

  
  


Isaac is probably the mopiest art guide in the history of art guides. Even in the impressionist exhibit, where he’s usually his happiest, the bright colours and confident brushstrokes only remind him of how _unhappy_ he is. Yeah, Monet was a struggling artist who lost two wives and was refused money by his father, who went blind and couldn’t see the colours he loved, but Isaac lost his only friend. When tourists ask him questions about the artwork, Isaac huffs and says as little as possible. He feels like one of the lazy employees his age who chew gum and lean against door frames and don’t know anything about art.

At least he can still enjoy lunch, where he knows Stiles wouldn’t dare enter anymore, at least when he knows Isaac would be on lunch break. Isaac knows Stiles doesn’t want to run into Isaac as much as Isaac doesn’t want to run into him.

He’s late to lunch, has to wait behind the throngs of high school kids who shove one another and shout across the restaurant. He orders the regular, can’t find a seat in the restaurant, has to find a bench against the building outside where he can balance the sub on his lap and watch seagulls swoop around the parking lot and a nearby playground.

Isaac continues his sandwich until something slimy and definitely papery finds it’s way into his mouth. With a grimace, he pulls it out from between his lips to find a slim of spitty paper with something printed on it. Isaac smears away a smudge of mayonnaise.

_ISAAC LAHEY!!! COME TO THE PLAYGROUND TONIGHT AFTER YOUR SHIFT!! PLEASE!!_

Isaac can’t decide whether to wonder how the hell this message got into his sandwich or who the hell would want to send him this message. His first thought is that it’s Stiles, but why? Why would the guy who stopped hanging out with him suddenly send him a mysterious note in between his bacon and his cucumber slices?

The note, crumpled up and soggy, haunts him from his back pocket for the rest of the day. Isaac is even more distracted than he was before lunch, to the dismay of the gallery’s visitors. Isaac even messes up a basic fact about Edgar Degas, says he painted horses instead of ballerinas, and Isaac would usually be appalled at his mistake but his mind is too preoccupied to even dwell on it.

Finally, his shift is over and he’s rushing out the door with his scarf slung around his neck. He’s almost at the playground when he slows down, wonders if he’s _really_ going to go ahead and trust a note left in his Subway. Isaac has never been one to take risks. But something urges him on, tells him to go ahead, and before he knows it Isaac is standing on the edge of the sand, glancing around for signs of another person lurking in the bushes.

Isaac feels a tap on his shoulder, whirls around to find Stiles holding a bouquet of flowers and blushing and trying not to grin. He’s going to say something but Isaac can’t find the words and before he has a chance to even think of something to say Stiles is kissing him.

  
  


Stiles didn’t exactly plan on planting one right on Isaac without even saying something beforehand. He was going to say a really long speech about how their relationship had evolved, how everything was Stiles’ fault, how he just wanted Isaac back in his life. He was going to explain bribing the Subway worker with twenty bucks to plant the note, going to the flower shop and trying to pick out the most Monet-inspired bouquet, getting Scott to give him romantic speech pointers. But after not seeing Isaac for well over a week, getting a glimpse of that wonderful, kissable face _totally_ made him go off-script.

The kiss isn’t long, because Stiles gets his bearings and realizes that he doesn’t know for sure that Isaac even likes him and the flowers are getting crushed between them and he pulls away to apologize, but Isaac is leaning with him, places a hand gently on the back of Stiles’ neck and this is enough to drive him wild. Neither of them are very good kissers, neither of them have very much experience, but they make up for it with the passion of two awkward friends who just had a huge fight and really missed eachother.

“Why, uh, why the note?” Isaac pants when they finally break apart for air, though Stiles notices that Isaac is still close to him, and he can feel Isaac’s breath hot against his face and he’d really rather not be talking now, but he lets Isaac go on, “Why didn’t you just come talk to me? Why didn’t you tell me you felt the same way?”

“I didn’t know _you_ felt the same way!” Stiles laughs and wraps his arms around Isaac’s neck, is really enjoying the height difference how, “I just thought you got awkward because you were always awkward around people… I didn’t want to assume anything.”

“You know now, though,” Isaac observes, and then they’re kissing all over again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tomorrow's the epilogue! hoped you've enjoyed the fic so far and i really hope you love me enough to leave some feedback! xoxoxo


	7. First Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice fluffy prologue to end a nice fluffy fic!

“No way!”

“Yes way, silly. It’s your birthday, for fuck’s sake. Did you think I would forget?”

“No, it’s just, I didn’t think we would _do_ anything!”

Isaac is sitting at Stiles’ kitchen table, a small pile of gifts in front of him. Scott and Allison, who got back together literally a month after they broke up, are smiling at them from the couch, and Stiles is hovering anxiously over Isaac. He’s been planning this birthday for weeks, and it’s going to be perfect.

“Well, aren’t you going to open something?”

Isaac reaches for a small square gift, but Stiles shoves his hands away and gives him a cylindrical one instead. Isaac unwraps it, finds a rolled up poster, realizes what it is at the same time that Stiles starts bouncing with excitement and chants “do you like it do you like it do you like it?”

“I love it, Stiles!” It’s a print of Impression, Soleil Levant, the very painting that made them hate each other and then love each other. Isaac unrolls it, and an envelope falls to the table from between the folds.

Stiles grabs the envelope, looks at Isaac with glee, pulls the first item out of it.

“Okay, Isaac, here’s the key to my apartment. Because, um, Scott is moving in with Allison and I know your roommate Erica might be going on a six month exchange to Italy and I just wanted to know if you’ll move in with me? And this key can be yours?”

“Seriously? Yes! I, Stiles, thank you!”

“Okay, save the thank you smooches for just a little longer, because there’s more.”

Stiles pulls two rectangular pieces of paper out of the envelope, hands them to Isaac. It reads, _American Airlines First Class Round Trip - Paris, France_.

“We’re going to France for summer vacation!” Stiles’ face feels like it might split in two, he’s grinning so widely, “I have it all planned out and most importantly we’re going to take a trip to Giverny and visit Monet’s house and I asked the tour guide and I asked my Dad to give me some extra cash so we have the entire museum booked just for us for a private tour for a whole day!”

Stiles is forced to take a breath, is going to continue on his rant to tell Isaac about going to the Eiffel tower and sightseeing and eating pastries and doing stupid tourist boyfriend things but he’s being kissed before he can get another word out.

“I fucking love you, Stiles Stilinski,” Isaac is smiling, his eyes lit up.

“Love you too, Tall Boy,” Stiles replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to y'all for all the support in writing this fic! I really enjoyed Stisaac week, and I'm happy to say that it is possible to write an amazing story in just a week. Any comments/kudos would fill my heart with joy <3


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